


Oh, Simple Thing

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soldier and nurse comfort one another amidst the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Simple Thing

     Wrong place, wrong time.

     You see Satan and you run. Bodies are heavy, you realise––a man charges into you, screaming with maddening defeat. You want to burst into tears, but your legs, your heart, your mind, beg you to run. 

     They tell stories about The Tiger; the tank created at the fingertips of Germans.

     Large, great, powerful. A cold machine which was built solely to conduct death. Your arms shake, your knees buckle, and you slip in the mud. None of the men wait; the other agent at your side is too slow, and you watch as his feet are thrown off the ground. A part of his corpse lands to the right of your shoulder.

     Dog tags slip out of your jacket, dangling from your throat as you struggle to your feet. You’re younger and faster than some of the men and race past them, burying yourself into the trench as soon as you reach safety.

     A man points at you, and you’re scared for a moment.

     Then you feel what’s wrong.

     You press a hand to your shoulder, and blood oozes through.

     A bullet wound.

     Two.

     A blast is heard and all of you duck. Someone pushes you further into the trench, screaming your name, but you can barely hear. There is just the simple tune of ringing. A warning of your growing insanity. Your mouth is dry, lips chapped, eyelids heavy, and your entire arm feels as if it might fall off.

     This time, you survive.

 

 

 

 

 

     She is younger than you; delicate in appearance, but confident and assured of herself. A nurse, and you think it sad how the first time you met, she was a simple diner girl. Getting by. That was before the war, before 1939.

     Before the end.

     There’s always been an eagerness about her; an enthusiasm to be your friend. You’re flattered and touched and you like her, but, at first, it was all too much. You know the consequences of attachment. You know how horrible it can be, and so, to begin with, you kept your distance.

     Of course, Angela Martinelli is not a force to be reckoned with.

     ‘You’re cold, English.’ She drapes a blanket over your shoulders, and you smile gratefully. ‘How’s the shoulder?’

     ‘Fine.’ A lie. The pain is unbearable, and the chill only makes it worse. 

     Sometimes, the agony is so dominating, it makes you sweat. Makes you heave; sometimes you’re even sick. You’ve never known what it’s like to endure a bullet wound. You’ve never endured surgery; how the doctor, in such a rush to get through every patient, removed the bullet wounds and the blood, _the blood_ , you could smell it and the stench of burnt flesh and yells and cries and madness, pure madness and––

     ‘Hey,’ Angie says softly, ‘English? Pegs?’

     ‘Hm?’

     ‘I’m losing ya, gal.’ She clicks her fingers, ‘C’mon, stay with me.’

     ‘Sorry.’ You clear your throat. Blink. ‘It’s snowing.’

     ‘Yeah,’ Angie replies, smiling. ‘It’s lookin’ real pretty out there; you wanna see?’

     You shake your head. ‘I can’t. I’d rather stay inside, if that’s all right.’

     ‘’S fine by me, English. Whatever you wanna do.’

     Then you see her uniform. 

     It was once white.

     Now stained in red. Your throat narrows, and you think it unfair how Angie, wonderful, darling Angie, has to go through this too. She doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t deserve any of it. You scrunch your eyes shut at the sensation of tears. Angie says your name, but you try to shrug her off.

     ‘I wanna help; lemme help you feel better––’

     ‘No, I’m fine,’ you swallow back a cry. Angie is by your side now, an arm around you, and she’s close, very close, and your eyes flutter closed at the warmth of her breath. You’ve missed that. That closeness with somebody. Be it a friend, family member, lover. You’ve missed it dearly. 

     ‘You’re not fine. You’re exhausted.’

     ‘Perhaps I require sleep. Some rest.’ You turn your head to see her. Angie’s cheeks are flushed. It has been a long, tiring day and she’s seen too many corpses. ‘Darling, when do you finish?’

     ‘Huh? Me?’ Angie forces a smile, and it breaks your heart. ‘In a bit, but I gotta check on everybody. Make sure you’re all fine, y’know?’

     ‘And when will you check on yourself?’

     Her smile falters, and you have her there. You know Angie hates it when you challenge her this way. ‘When I get home,’ she says. Her arm returns to her side. ‘Y’know, I wasn’t expecting you to come back to me this way, English. Gave me a heck of a fright.’ You soften your expression. Nearly apologise, but she cuts through. ‘I’ve seen it all before, but I––you were so pale, and you’d lost all that blood, and I––’

     ‘Angie.’ Any retort is lost. Your eyes drop to the blood splattered across her skirt, and your shoulders slump. ‘Look at you. You’re a _state_.’

     ‘Oh,’ Angie mumbles, cocking a brow. ‘Gee, thanks, English.’

     ‘I’m not joking.’

     ‘You’re telling me.’ Angie heaves a sigh. Dramatically stands. ‘ _Fine_. If I’m so unpleasant to be around.’ You roll your eyes. ‘While we’re at it, you seen y’self?’ She smirks. ‘C’mon. I think we both need a bit of a scrub. Can you walk?’

     ‘Tsk.’ You scowl, ‘Remember who you’re talking to.’ 

     However as soon as you slip your feet off the bed, touch the floor, your shoulder feels as if it’s on fire. Angie is immediately at your side, giggling sweetly. ‘Yeah, I do remember. Gotta watch that pride a’yours, English. Might get hurt.’

     ‘Oh, be quiet.’

     Angie grins, and brings an arm around your waist. She feels good to lean against, and you allow her to guide you towards the small washroom at the back of the ward. It’s nothing luxurious. As is anything these days, but you both make the best of it. She sits you down and wipes your face with a warm flannel, ridding any dirty marks and stains.

     It’s strangely soothing, her washing your face. The flannel passes your lips, across your cheek, and you adore her eyes. They’re too blue. They’re just too blue. Too bright. You don’t know how anyone could have such bright eyes during such dark times. But that’s what Angie is: a light. Your light. 

     Your little happiness.

     ‘There. Much better.’ Pleased with her work, Angie rinses the flannel. She begins untying her apron. ‘Now onto me, so no complaints, okay?’

     You chuckle. How can she make this all into something funny? ‘Fair enough.’

     She strips away the apron, and unbuttons her uniform. ‘Urgh, this stuff goes everywhere.’ Perhaps she means the blood, perhaps she means the medicine, or the fluids, or bodily insides, _God you don’t want to know_ , but when she starts to peel away her uniform, you’re flooded with far too many emotions.

     Is this what you are both reduced to?

     Uniform?

     (You almost forget the small person underneath.)

     ‘I missed you out there.’

     Angie stops unbuttoning her attire. She inhales shakily. ‘Really? You did?’ Then a laugh, a soft, sad laugh. ‘Thought you’d have enough entertainment not to think about me.’ Neither of you speak after that remark.

     She forgets the purpose of you both being here. Why you insisted she wash herself. She forgets, and you come face-to-face with how much of a toll the war has over her. Tears sting your eyes, and you’re struggling again. It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense how her pain carves such a massive hole in you.

     Maybe you should comfort her?

     But you’re not sure what to do in these situations anymore.

     Out there, you’re alone most of the time. Fighting against the chill, wrapped in your blankets, starving to death. 

     Terrified. 

     Foolishly you decide it best to comfort her. Angie gasps when you rise to your feet, and you underestimate the pain–– _idiot_. This damned shoulder, those damned bullets, _those bloody Germans_. You groan, and place your hand against the wall to balance yourself. 

     You expect Angie to push you down onto the chair.

     Or return you to bed.

     Instead she’s pressed against you, her body suddenly so tiny and fragile, and she’s soft and warm and perfect. Angie embraces you because she has no idea what else she’s meant to do; how she’s meant to feel. You tried to stand. For her. You tried to ignore your war wounds, just for her sake, and maybe Angie is too selfless to handle that.

     Overwhelmed, pained, traumatised, your hands press into her waist, fingertips into her skin, and she only tightens her embrace. 

     ‘I know a girl; I know a few girls––they’ve received letters, and when they get these letters, their lives are suddenly so lonely.’ She inhales, and loosens her arms around you. ‘Men keep dyin’, Peggy. I keep seein’ them die; I’ve watched too many die.’ Her voice cracks, and you hold your breath, ‘All I can do is hold ‘em.’

     ‘Dying in your arms.’ You smile. ‘That must be the best way to go.’

     She looks away. Angie is crying, and she brings her hands to her eyes, wipes them dry. You claim her hands in yours and squeeze. Now you see where that joy has gone; Angie’s brightness, her delight, her enthusiasm even over the smallest of things. 

     It’s all crumbling away.

     Bit by bit.

     You want to cry for her; you want to mourn for her. You want to endure the grief she does, just so her happiness doesn’t fade away completely.

     ‘I spend nights thinkin’ about you; if you’re still alive. If… If someone will hold you when you disappear.’ 

     ‘But I am not disappearing.’ 

     Angie looks up at you. 

     There’s anger. This repulsive anger, this regret, and something else. Something else you can’t quite decipher. You remain defenceless and wounded to her. For now it is finally apparent that she is the stronger one. She always has been, whereas you have simply _pushed_ by. Tried and failed.

     You can’t even _die_ properly.

     The something else in her eyes is tender; so tender.

     Her fingers rake in your hair when she kisses you. Her mouth warm and open, tongue parting your lips, and she has you in that moment. You both share in your nightmares, everything the war has crushed down on you, and you _need_ this. You need her. 

     But she is too hurried, you too slow. She tries to remove your blouse, but the material cuts through your bandaged shoulder, and you hiss in pain. Angie immediately retreats, horrified, and her wide eyes and concern make you stutter, ‘I––It’s okay.’ You can’t let her stop; you don’t want this to stop.

     Instead you both change tactics. Angie is slow, far more gentle in her kisses, and she helps you unbutton the rest of her uniform. 

     She’s _warm_.

     God, she is _hot_ , and your body absorbs all of her heat. You crave her. You need her skin pressed against yours, and you need her to keep kissing you. You want that touch, you want her; you love the way she makes you feel. Alive, free, _the heat rising to your cheeks_. How your heart races, blood surging through your veins––

     ––you can’t breathe, she’s so close; she kisses and kisses you. The uniform is apart and crumples to her ankles. She steps out of the material, wraps her arms around your neck, deliberately minding your wound. The wall is cold against your back, and you gasp, her hand gliding up your stomach.

     Her lips are on your neck.

     Your collarbone.

     Your breasts.

     She is the remedy to your every graze; she nurses your sore and bruised skin with her kisses. You lose the battle and sigh, arms coming around her body, and she takes you. Angie presses you close, and your hand is shaking, roaming up her thigh. She’s vocal, quiet but vocal, eyes shut, as if blocking out the sight of what the war has done to you; she blinds herself, shutting down her perception.

     Angie can only touch and hear you, and you fall into her urgency. 

     It is all done in blindness. Angie moans softly into your mouth when you cup her breasts, squeeze ever so gently. Her body is smooth, soft, heated skin––there are no marks of battle on her body.

     Instead, her eyes are pooled with her trauma.

     She kisses your shoulder, lips brushing across the bandage, and she calls you beautiful, perfect; says she loves you and you steal every word.

     Take what you can, before you’re thrown out there, like the toy soldier you are.

     Cold metal touches her lips, and she tries her hardest to ignore the dog tags. You grab at them, grip them into your palm. They cut through your skin, and then you feel her. Slow and gentle, rubbing you tenderly––she catches your lips in her own. You both kiss, filled with rapture, and her hands, breasts, stomach, is pressed so close, you may suffocate. 

     Suddenly you part your lips from hers, and exclaim; Angie finally opens her eyes, watches how you feel. What _this_ makes you feel. How long it has been since you’ve endured anything like this. 

     You slam your mouth onto hers, and she continues touching you; you’re weak, shuddering viciously as you hit your peak. Angie smiles weakly, not proud; nor happy. But simply relieved––relieved you could have had this. 

     Had her.

     ‘I don’t want you to die,’ she whispers, a scar in your heart.

     You silence any further words with kisses. Return this gift she’s given you, and by the end, when you’re both breathless and clinging onto each other––as if the earth may split apart and you’ll both be separated for an eternity––you try to forget the possibility of being sent back out again. 

     You forget it all, just for her.

     You forget it all, _with_ her, and, that, at least, allows you to smile––a proper smile.

 

 

 

 

 

     The bus is about to depart. You are to report for duty in less than an hour, and your shoulder burns, and your feet are aching. 

     She pulls you back slightly, stops you from running away––not just yet. Angie is breaking protocol; she’s not allowed to escape the hospital while on her shift, but she has to see you off. She can’t let you go without saying a good bye, without some sort of promise that you’ll return to her.

     It’s kind of nice.

     Kind of sad.

     Kind of wonderful.

     Somebody waits for you; somebody thinks about you. Not all of your friends are dead, after all. 

     And maybe there is little left to say when she kisses you, when she lets go of your hand, and the world is suddenly much colder than before.

     She has that smile; that smile when you first met her. As if she’s hiding something, but her optimism is too much to break. She smiles for you, with you, and you’ll remember that. Her smile, when the sky is grey and life is hopeless. 

     You will remember her.

     ‘Good bye.’

     A sort of vow. A definite vow, that next year, next Christmas, you’ll both spend it together. That’s a dream, a little certainty you can delve in on those chilly nights. You embrace each other, and her grip is soft yet strong all the same. She smells of childhood, of happiness and strawberries and she’s perfect.

     She smiles, sad and young, and when you step onto the bus, holding your breath, you smile too.

     You will come back for her. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from.  
> Don't look at me.
> 
> (... I hope you liked. Thank you for reading. kbye.)


End file.
